The Order's Chronicles
by McJunker
Summary: Four short stories concerning the first war against Voldemort. Sort of a mix of espionage and drama.


A/N: A series of (very) short stories, concerning the first war against Voldemort. No connections implied between stories, and while I'm basing these off of canon I do not necessarily consider myself limited by it.

* * *

><p>The man's long, pale face was twisted like he was sucking on something unbearably sour.<p>

"Well?" he demanded.

His companion shrugged desperately. "Either Lupin's telling the truth about how Jason Longbottom died, or he killed him. And if Lupin is lying, then he's either under the _Imperius_ or he isn't." The young man's accent was a thickened country growl, and puberty hadn't yet deepened his voice all the way. It was hard to catch every word when he talked fast.

The sour man grunted. "I suppose it was a waste of time sending you to follow him."

The young man said nothing, but privately agreed. He had never felt less like a spy than right now.

"He met with no one? Went nowhere suspicious?" The sour man did not look hopeful.

"Not that I saw. But I didn't follow him into the Forbidden Forest. He might have made contact with a Death Eater or someone there."

"Why didn't you follow him? Scared of vampires and bugbears?" The sour man jeered moodily.

"I ain't about to go after a damn werewolf into a forest. Not on a full moon."

The sour man rubbed his chin with a calloused thumb. "Fuck."

The young man volunteered, "I think he's on the square. I seen how he plays with little Harry, with James and Lily right there in the room. I think we can trust him."

"I don't give a damn about your hunches," the sour man spat. "He's a werewolf, and You-Know-Who's been making promises to the mangy buggers. He was the last one to see Jason Longbottom alive. _And_ we can't account for his movements. He's not going to be Secret-Keeper till he's cleared, and _you_ didn't bloody clear him."

"Just give me a little more time," the young man pleaded. "I'll stick to him real close this time, and I won't mess up again."

"Too late," the sour man said with gloomy relish. "Albus says that they'll be casting the charm in two days. I don't know who it's going to end up being- probably Black- but thanks to your excellent work it sure as shit won't be Lupin."

* * *

><p>It felt kind of like being drunk, actually. Not rip-roaring, dance on the tabletops drunk- just heavily buzzed. From behind your eyes you can see the world passing by, like you were lying on a beach somewhere watching the tide go in and out. Then an impulse comes and you just do it with no judgement at all.<p>

Kevin Wilford played his game of chess calmly and without fuss, occasionally smiling at what someone in the room said or did. Sometimes he drummed the tabletop with his fingers and pursed his lips in concentration. He tapped his feet and chewed his nails without thinking about it. He didn't know why he did these things, but there was an impulse to act natural at all times, so that's what he did.

As he swapped his black knight for a bishop, he had a sudden urge to kill himself- just eat his wand right there on the spot and cast the Cutting Charm. This impulse was strange, nowhere near as relaxing as the other impulse. It seemed to him that he had a very good reason to commit suicide, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it could be. In any case, the urge soon vanished and he resumed acting natural.

"You're dead now, Sirius," Kevin heard himself say. "Your queen's out in the open way too early."

Sirius Black casually lifted two fingers as he moved a pawn. "That's a good thing. I have so much power coming down on the four center squares it's not even funny."

Kevin moved his other knight out so it threatened the white queen. "Once you stick your most powerful piece out there, all you doing is allowing me target practice. But carry on nonetheless, we do have money on this game."

They were at the Prewett Estate, which was one of the three major Order safehouses. The Prewetts were an old family, tracing their lineage back to Godric Gryffndor's younger brother Gregory. As such, they had had generations of immensely powerful wizards investing in the place. It may have the appearance of an old, comfortable, rustic estate, but to any enemy the Prewett family might acquire it was an impregnable fortress. As refuges go, it rank up there with Gringotts or Hogwarts.

In the kitchen area, he could hear Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody talking in quiet voices about the war. His ears and mind were focused on them. He memorized every word as it was spoken, even as he bantered with Sirius and acted natural.

The Order had discovered that an Unspeakable named Horatio Goodtallow had taken the Dark Mark. They were making plans to arrest him on Monday, but they wanted to take advantage of the situation first. They would run the news by an Order member named Milo Sawback first, to test if he was a security leak. If Goodtallow did a runner before Monday, than they knew not to trust Sawback. If not, then they could put one Death Eater away and gain a trusted fighter.

_Excellent_, Kevin thought. _I can tip off Goodtallow myself and frame Sawback. The Dark Lord will reward me greatly for my cunning-_

He frowned angrily, bewildered and suspicious. That didn't much sound like him. Wasn't he in the Order to fight You-Know-Who?

The impulse came to stop thinking and act natural, so he did.

Sirius looked at Kevin uneasily. "You alright there, mate?"

Kevin raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You looked really upset there for a minute."

He almost said, "You need to kill me right now, Sirius."

However, he had an impulse to grin easily and naturally, and say, "I just hate taking money off a friend. Check." So he did.

* * *

><p>There were three theories on how the Tenderloin district in San Francisco got its name. The first is that it was a crude reference to the abundance of prostitutes in the district. The second is that the policemen who worked there had received so much hazard pay that they could afford to dine on tenderloin steak every night. The third is that the police were so <em>corrupt<em> that they could dine on tenderloin every night.

Regardless of which theory if any was true, the Tenderloin was a bad place to live. The homeless there were almost matter-of-fact about their plight. Drug addiction, casual crime, and prostitution were rife. There was not a single building in the Tenderloin's fifty square blocks that wasn't either decaying or slathered in graffiti. However, the rent there was the cheapest in the city, so the landlords had few problems filling their cramped rooms. The homeless crowded the narrow streets, crusty and hairy and covered by as much thick clothing as they could. Many would sleep out on the sidewalks by day so they could remain on their guard throughout the night.

To its north was the main shopping district that the tourists seized in force every day. To its south was the city civic centers. To the east was one of the richest neighborhoods in California. It was as though all the affluent people of San Francisco had seen the desperate conditions there and decided that it was best to keep such a place safely under siege.

A man would have to be deeply eccentric to live in such a place if he didn't have to.

Luckily for the Order of the Phoenix, Jon Miletown was indeed such a man.

For that matter, a wizard would have to be crazy to live in such a place if there was no magic allowed to him at all.

Luckily for the Order, Jon was a Squib.

Dumbledore had been very clear on the necessity of _no magic_, at any time, for any reason. He wanted the ultimate safe zone, one so secret that the Dark Lord would never even think to look for it, let alone find it. So the Order went to Gringotts, exchanged some gold for pounds, then exchanged pounds for dollars, and bought an apartment on the other side of the world.

In many respects, it was the greatest hiding spot for refugees and Ministry spies in existence. It was thousands of miles from the Dark Lord and his followers. The ban on spells meant that there would be no magic signatures to alert any passing magical people that this filthy apartment room in the wrong part of town was an outpost of Wizarding Britain. Just as importantly, nobody save Miletown, Dumbledore, and those passing through had any knowledge of its existence.

The downside was that most wizards could only stand the miserable, piss-stained rathole for a few hours before storming out in frustration. No magic meant all chores must be done by hand. All forms of contact with friends and family, including by Patronus and owl, were not available. Screams and shouts from outside kept them awake at night, and they couldn't even Silence it. Miletown and Dumbledore had agreed that in the interests of security, all witches and wizards assigned there must to give up their wands to avoid temptation, and few could stand _that_ restriction for long.

But as a half-way house, it was secure and hidden, and to Miletown that was all that mattered. Obviously, Jon wasn't bothered by the lack of magic- no more than it usually bothered him anyway. He was ideally suited for such a post.

He was miserable, of course. The majority of people living in the Tenderloin were. He had no company, few forms of entertainment. His budget was enough to pay the rent and put food on the table, and perhaps buy a used book or a movie ticket once every few weeks. Being without a car or money for public transport, his range was limited to where his feet could take him, and on the few occasions that he did go out on day trips he had to make sure to be home before dark. In the Tenderloin, bad things could happen to middle-aged men out by themselves at night. Unless Miletown was looking after a passer-through, he had no projects to give his time to, and often went stir crazy alone in his room, reading and rereading old magazines and books without seeing even a letter, working on the same crossword puzzles for weeks at a time. When Dumbledore sent word through Muggle mail that an agent would be staying there for a while, he'd have to endure three or four days of babysitting a scared and frustrated wizard who would hold him in contempt because he couldn't perform even the simplest spell.

There was no glory for Jon Miletown, no thanks and no recognition. His wards would remember him only as the man who forbade them their magic, not as the man who saved their lives. Dumbledore would never publicly acknowledge him, in case the Headmaster had need of the secret hideout again. No history book would note his contribution to the war against the Dark Mark. He would simply sacrifice ten years of his life in service to people who wouldn't deign to remember him. He wasn't even necessary to the war effort, strictly speaking- he was just one of seven stations of the underground railroad that led from Magical Britain to safety. They could get along without him, if they had to.

But Dumbledore's job would have been harder without him. The process that led wizards and witches to freedom would have been clunkier, less streamlined. Jon Miletown wasn't important, and he knew that. But he also knew that _people_ like him were absolutely vital.

As one muggle poet had said, they also serve who only stand and wait.

He often thought that, had he been so fortunate as to attend Hogwarts, he would have been a Hufflepuff.

* * *

><p>Caradoc felt numb. Nothing else- no sorrow, no rage, no fear. There was only a calm, vibrating hum that seemed to pass through every inch of his body.<p>

_I'm actually going to die,_ he thought distantly. _Not years from now, not peacefully in my sleep. It's now. Here. There's nothing past this part_.

The Dark Lord was surprisingly handsome. He looked no more than twenty, young for a wizard, though Caradoc Dearborn knew him to be over fifty. Healthy looking black hair that was flawlessly combed in a conservative style. High cheekbones and deep, dark, soulful eyes. But there was something else to him, something that almost defied the senses. He seemed almost blurred, like a bad photograph. Caradoc couldn't imagine what foul magics could leave a man looking like that. The Dark Lord was dressed in a simple black robe made from the finest materials, which swirled about his feet as the cold wind blew through the clearing.

Dead, naked trees forming a dead forest. Damp, dead leaves crumbling and molding into half frozen slush. Civilization was miles away- no one would come to save him, and no one would hear his death scream. Winter had come, and Caradoc was numbed now. His robes did nothing to stop the wind.

The Dark Lord stared into Caradoc's eyes, searching, like a hungry wolf scavenging for scraps.

"You're not afraid," the warlock said quietly. His voice was as cold and pitiless as winter itself.

Caradoc shook his head. "No, I'm not."

"And you're not lying, either," Voldemort said. His right hand was hidden in the depths of his robe, where most wizards kept their wands.

"No."

"Why? You know that death is coming to claim you. Why are you unafraid?" The Dark Lord sounded confused, almost plaintive.

Caradoc didn't think before answering. "It's how I win. You can kill me, but you can't scare me."

Voldemort drew his wand. The motion was quick, precise, and practiced.

Caradoc bent his head to the side and grinned. It was an empty stab at gallow's humor, but he couldn't work up the morbid cheerfulness that it would require. "One day you'll stand where I am standing. You'll stare your death right in the face, but you're too goddamn crazy to understand what you'll be looking at. That's the difference between me and you. You'll die like some dumb animal, not even knowing what's happening to you. But I'm going to die like a man. Voldemort."

The Dark Lord whispered two words.


End file.
